How long I stayed there, grief stricken, horrified, empty of the will to do anything or think of what to do, I cannot remember.
The rock grunted again, this time beyond the break that had taken Ellen, another avalanche of rock rumbled down the mountain side throwing up a cloud of grey dust. This alerted my anaesthetised brain to do something.
I had to get off this fragile path. I took my phone out and photographed Ellen's body and a horizon shot so she could be located. Although with the black kites still pecking at her body I doubted that there would be anything but bones to recover. I had a fleeting memory of some religion that formally put their dead on a mountain to be dismembered by vultures, thus restoring to nature the essence of their corporeal existence. Maybe this was Ellen's goodbye to earth.
The only way off the path was up. The slope was not as acute as that below but it was still strewn with scree. I climbed crabwise diagonally upward with my heart hammering in case I provoked a landslide which ended by my joining Ellen in death. At that time it didn't seem such an important fate to avoid, and no doubt that led me to take the risk of the climb, which luckily paid off.
I reached the top of the ridge, bare, except for a few large boulders. I found a site in a cleft beside a boulder. The sun was setting, and I watched the same western skies as Ellen and I had seen together a night ago, or was it two, it seemed so distant - another world. A world with promise - struggles, conflicts, yes. But love and companionship too. Now nothing, a void. But there still was something I must do. Something I owed Ellen and the people and loved ones in a timestream.
I unwrapped the bedroll in the gathering cold and as the sun hid its light below the horizon rolled myself in the remnants of Ellen's scents and slept, fitfully and with horror filled dreams of the dismemberment of my so recently found beloved's body by huge black birds.
I woke in the darkest part of the night, before the moon rose high, and shivered as a night wind wailed in the clefts of the rocks, a soulful cry of grief for that which I'd lost.
I couldn't sleep now. I had this vague sense of the validity of the plan that led Ellen and I on this mountain trek, but now doubted why we had been doing it at all. Yes, Kelly had uttered a cry for help. Yes Jacob had wanted me to get the Rosetta data into the world, and overcome the limitations of his Holo projector.
But where were these demands in the context of the larger picture? The one that included Chris' account as given by Lewis of his life in 2145.
Lewis came back to Chris in 1994 to seek help. But it was an instinctive personal plea.
Had Chris interpreted this as a call for help with an earth-wide political and financial scandal? Perhaps not. Were either I or Chris right in thinking that the future exploitation of Earth's suffering 24 billion was wrong, if somehow, apparently painlessly, the cash could be raised to prevent the end of humanity from its destruction in much the same way as the age of the dinosaurs had been terminated.
I realised at that moment that either I was thinking too clearly or I was in a state of hysteria. I drank some water. It didn't seem to help.
The thoughts ground inexorably on. So you, Charles Berisford, are confronted with a problem of time travel. Not by virtue of some Wellsian machine but by genetics, and probability. So what you have been told, happened in 2145. Suppose you alter today so that it doesn't. But you through Chris Williamson know that it did - will.
So whatever I did now wouldn't make a difference? That was as good an argument for turning over in a snug duvet and ignoring the alarm clock as I'd heard in a long time.
Can't be right. You have to struggle. To carry on with your game plan. Unless we all do this the future will not happen at all. All living things temporarily reverse entropy. If they give up, chaos looms closer and becomes the now.
So what was my game plan? To elude the security authorities as long as I could and get back to answer Kelly's plea for help. But what was happening now? In the dim light of the rising moon I dragged my phone out of my pocket. Surely on this ridge there would be a line of sight to the mast I knew was there at the observatory. But I hesitated to turn the phone on. Who else had been landed at the observatory? Trained operatives to interpret the signals from mobile phones would be some of them. Better I remain in ignorance and stay invisible. I put the phone back, and tried to sleep again..
Somehow I rested in a sort of confused dream and at first light packed the bedroll onto the rucksack, drank some water to assuage the pangs of hunger, and resumed my tramp along the ridge commanding the trail on which I had lost Ellen.
Unfortunately the ridge remained at roughly the same height whilst the trail was descending. I had to make the decision to climb down while I could still see the trail.
I was no athlete. I was no mountaineer. I was no climber. My descent through first the huge boulders, then the smooth volcanic rock slopes, and then the glacial scree was inelegant and precipitate. Many times I spread-eagled myself on the mountain whilst sheets of stones tumbled down the slope.
In one of my more precipitate slides my jacket rucked up, and one of Jacob's film discs skidded down with the falling rocks. I rechecked and rebuttoned the pocket. The other DVDrw was safe as were my travel documents.
After each rockfall I examined the trail below. It had survived my clumsy progress, and I regained the trail after a painful, wearisome, two hours.
After a further two hours easy walk, I arrived at the road, that led downward eventually to the airport and upward to the observatory.
I then realised that as a solitary walker on the road I might be all too visible to any army traffic that travelled along it. Accordingly I kept my hearing alert to any approaching vehicle
and looked for places to hide while it passed. Eventually I came to a small village, which mercifully had a tavern which served me a simple meal, for I was ravenously hungry. The lager I downed went straight to my head, and I stayed in the darkest corner of the bar until I felt recovered.
I asked the barman if he would call a taxi to take me to the airport. I paid for the meal, the drink, and the telephone call and the call was made. The proffer of hard cash made him ignore the no doubt bedraggled appearance I presented. I had a sort of wash in cold water in an evil smelling lavatory in the tavern, seeing for the first time in a cracked mirror with yellowing silver peeling off, my grey dust covered face, tangled hair and haunted eyes,. I jammed the baseball cap on my head once more to partly hide the sight.
The taxi arrived. It was a tired Malaysian version of Peugot diesel driven by a dark skinned man of indeterminate race. He spoke English with a New York accent as he quizzed me where to go.
I said, "The airport, departures. Tell me has anything happened since that huge American helicopter came climbing up the mountain a couple of nights ago?"
"Nope. It ain't come back though. Everyone saw it or heard it. Noisy bloody thing. Where was you when it came?"
"Near the observatory. But I've been walking in the hills since."
"Some say the Army has taken over the observatory and all the staff are being kept there.
Dunno meself. Try to keep outa the way of Army or Police. Nothin' but trouble those. You going home to Ozzie?"
I nearly corrected his mistaken identity of my accent, and then thought the more misdirection the better and said, "Yep."
"The buzz is that security is as tight as a duck's arse right now. Hope you've got all your papers but good."
"So do I, so do I"
'Shit,' I thought. 'Should have anticipated that - not that I can do much about it.'
We arrived at the airport. Monumental concrete and glass to the great God of travel.
The taxi disappeared with my money and I entered the 21st century of clean surfaces and organised shepherding of otherwise potential disruptors of the plan. The plan to make our 12 billion people conform so that the great swarm could continue its existence.
My dilemma now was how to get on a plane without triggering security, in whatever form was loyal to those seeking to contain Ellen and her colleagues, Kelly and my company back home.
Not being a terrorist, and without any help, made this difficult but I came up with a plan. In the anonymity of the vast array of airport shopping opportunities, I withdrew some cash from an ATM.
I bought the cheapest dumb phone I could, and then a complete outfit in garish hiking garments, including a new haversack and a baseball cap. In the toilets I changed my clothes and made a welcome wash with hot water, had a shave and cleaned my teeth.
I crammed the old clothes around the new phone and into the old rucksack, removing the water bottle, and dumping it and the bedroll in the toilet cubicle. In the new rucksack I put one of the CD's from Jacob's Rosetta 3D film. I also tore the lining of the baseball cap to admit the data stick of the Rosetta film.
I carried both new and old haversacks to the Cathay Pacific desk to book a plane using the open return ticket. Regrettably there was a four hour wait until the next departure which was at 11 pm that night.
I booked the new haversack as luggage in the hold. I bought two international newspapers and a Hawaii one, and settled in the restaurant bar for a three hour wait.
But I thought a bit further ahead and went to the shops again. I bought a nondescript haversack, a duty free bottle of whisky and a box of Kelly's favourite perfume, and a bulky sweater, which last I put in the haversack. I also bought a cheap souvenir brooch which I pinned to my baseball cap, which also went into the haversack.
Settled once more in the restaurant I took a lager and read the newspapers. There was no mention of the military presence at the observatory or the movement of the helicopter. I was convinced that this must be the result of a security clampdown. I loaded my new dumb phone number into my own phone and switched it onto the network. All it heeded to ring the dumb phone was one keypress.
The airport quietened down as night drew on and at ten o'clock I made my way to the entrance to the security checks. At a discreet distance from any visible CCTV camera I dropped the old haversack under a chair and carried on, shouldering the new haversack.
I joined the queue and hoped for a few to join behind me and pressed the key to call the dumb phone. Fortunately I wasn't the last in the queue as I was invited to put my bag and metal pocket items onto the tray.
The officer said pleasantly enough,"Please turn the phone off. Sir. Boarding pass please. "
"Oh, sorry."
The phone screen darkened, and I replaced it on the tray, and it was conveyed through a scanner. I gave him the pass and walked through the passenger scanner.
The luggage scanner had picked up the brooch or the data stick in my bag. I hoped the garish brooch prominently revealed by opening the bag would allay suspicion. It did.
As I passed from security to Passport Control I heard the screech-screech of an alarm.
"What's that?" I asked as I handed over my passport.
"Bloody alarm - don't know what." His desk phone rang, he picked it up and put it to his ear. He handed me the passport without looking and I continued to the loading lounge.
Within minutes we passengers were finding our seats and apologising to each other as we fumbled to find where our allocated seats were and getting our luggage into the overhead lockers, fastening seat belts and all the rest of the confused chaos that attended the tourist class passengers - even those on Cathay Pacific (where comfort and courtesy come first it said on the commercial).
Eventually order was moulded from confusion, and the nearest big pressurised door I could see was thumped shut.
I felt the clunk of the tow truck hitting the nose-wheel tow-point. and heard the slow upward whine of engine number one coming to ignition speed.
I started to relax. Maybe Auckland would be my next stop and maybe I could start grieving for Ellen.
The main engine turbine whine descended.
The speakers above us uttered.
"Sorry ladies and gentlemen, but we have a security alert. There will be a delay."
One of the stewards unlocked the aircraft door inward to reveal an army captain, and at the side of the door a soldier with a machine gun held vertically but at the ready.
There was a quiet word exchanged between the army officer and the steward and the aircraft's captain joined them.
The aircraft captain picked a microphone from a compartment by the door entrance, and the speakers said,"Would a Mr Charles Berisford from New Zealand make himself known to the aircraft flight attendants."